


In Memoriam

by Kiwi Stubbly-Punk (cranky__crocus)



Series: Harry Potter Fests '10 [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Kiwi%20Stubbly-Punk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were all great witches. They all, in whatever varied forms, bowed to Amelia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Memoriam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tetley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tetley/gifts).



> My gift for tetleythesecond in the 2010 Rare Pairs fest (http://rarepair-shorts.livejournal.com/profile). My first venture back into Harry Potter after a few years' absence.
> 
> Irma’s quote: ‘In Memoriam’ by Alfred Lord Tennyson. (http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poem/2127.html)

            Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank searched the litter for the fire-ended grubs her new charges would consume with less complaint; she had learned this through direct inference: they had latched onto her arm with prior food sources. She gleaned many tidbits of knowledge from her various creatures, usually with subtle observation over dental articulation. She had learned, for instance, to recognise the unique sensation of being watched.

            “Yes?” she inquired, not insolently, as she continued her sifting. As with many of her docile beasts, she preferred to do as she wished until specifically requested otherwise. Wil took the clearing of a throat to be that signal; the sound also revealed the visitor. “Rolanda.”

            Wilhelmina turned and brushed leaf material from her short-cropped hair with one raised shoulder. She took in her dear friend’s features as she did so. Rolanda silently offered a hand.

            Ignoring the soil at her fingertips, Wil gripped the firm hand and let it pull her up. Old knees, she mused as she took to her balanced stance.

            Hooch’s eyes were deep with fresh trauma, Wil noticed: the woman’s eyelids were stretched tight over tired and weary eyes. Her frown line was prominent and her lips turned down at the corners, frozen in place by unconsciously tensed muscles. Wil prepared for dreadful news—there was little else to expect in these dark days—but did not allow tension to overcome her. Tensing before a fall rarely lessened the impact, more frequently furthered the damage. There were certain techniques to discover by riding and falling from unicorns.

            Wil waited a moment, not at all concerned that her hand was still in the possession of Rolanda. Whatever offered comfort. It seemed Rolanda was gathering something from Wil’s presence, which she was content to offer; she poured forth whatever comfort she could present through their joined hands. Wilhelmina had learned patience through her life; she could wait for Rolanda to gather herself enough for speech.

            When she did, it was short: “We must leave now. Amelia. They’re waiting.” It was enough.

            Wilhelmina nodded solemnly, anguish welling in her heart. She squeezed Rolanda’s hand tight, pulling the woman close and snaking her arms around Ro’s too-slender sides, spreading sturdy hands over her back for comfort. Hooch went slack with a sigh, leaning heavily on her old friend. It was a second’s vulnerability, the release of an instant, but Wil could feel what it did for her oldest friend.

            “Where?” Wil asked softly, a whisper that would not disturb the moment. The reminder of their situation brought the tension back to Hooch’s body in a flood of disappointed recollection. Wilhelmina felt the change against her and regretted the occurrence, but knew there would be others waiting for them.

            “Three Broomsticks.”

            Wil side-Apparated the pair to the streets of Hogsmeade. They separated once the spinning had ceased. Rolanda stepped away and brushed herself off, needlessly, and wiped her hand on her trouser leg. Wil watched her take in the desolate streets of Hogsmeade, once filled with joyous flirtation and reckless fun on warm summer evenings like this one. The village seemed to hold more shadows than it once had. It was sad, watching it all through Hooch’s hawk eyes. She was an animal—for all humans were, no matter how fervently it was denied—of great intelligence and intuition. She knew the signs of war and heartache, for they came intertwined as a pair.

            Wilhelmina drew her companion out of the storm winds of her mind with a hand on the woman’s broad shoulder. It was quickly removed, but Rolanda appeared to draw strength from the gesture.

            They walked together, in step and silence, to the Three Broomsticks.

 

 

It was a pub known for friendship; it was easy to tell they were down a friend that night. Their customary corner table was not full, but then it hardly ever was. It was fullest in summer times like these, although it was preferable that the times be rich with joy rather than deep with melancholy.

            Poppy held Minerva’s hand below the table, hidden to anyone less observant than Grubbly-Plank and Hooch. Irma sat in the corner next to an empty chair, her finger holding her place in an old book nearly sizzling with visible wards and, probably, curses waiting for any poor soul to look at its pages the wrong way. Four empty chairs sat near her. Wil and Rolanda took two, gazing solemnly at the third.

            “Well I see you’ve finally arrived,” a curt voice announced as six firewhiskys were forcibly placed on the table. Irma glared at the escaped liquid and made an exaggerated motion of removing her book from the premises. Augusta gave the woman a look and pressed her lips together before speaking again. “For heaven’s sake, Irma, your book’s magicked rage is more likely to contaminate our drinks than _they_ are to touch a single word.”

            Irma’s lips shrank to one long line over her shallow features, but Wil could not miss how they turned up slightly at the corners.

            “Gussie, aren’t you supposed to be in hiding?” Pomfrey questioned, pulling two tankards toward her with her free hand and depositing one in front of McGonagall, who lifted it to her lips immediately.

            Augusta hung her bird hat on her chair and put her hands on her hips. “I _am_ in hiding. There’s nowhere safer than a pub in dark times, not when I’m a great witch among the greatest.” She stared at each of them in turn, capturing their eyes and holding the contact for a brief second each. “And what would it do to lock me away?”

            She sat. They all turned to the empty chair, where once there would have been laughter at Gussie’s sass and assurance that they were not great witches, but mad old spinsters. It would have come from the greatest one of them: she was the one of the seven to leave Hogwarts and achieve distinction as a political icon. They were all great witches. They all, in whatever varied forms, bowed to Amelia.

            Wil slid a firewhisky to Rolanda and took one for herself. Irma hid the book away in her rucksack and held the last pewter tankard.

            Wilhelmina held up her firewhisky slowly, low but considerably higher than the table. It had the look of a flag at half mast. Wil glanced at Rolanda and then at the empty chair, once so full of life.

            “To Amelia,” Rolanda offered as she raised her tankard. Her eyes were misty but her resolve was firm as she touched her tankard to her friend’s.

            “An evening for Amelia,” Augusta agreed as she followed suit.

            “To a good friend.” Minerva raised her drink and joined the forming circle.

            “To a friend departed.” Pomfrey’s drink rose.

            “To a friend remembered by mad old spinsters in an evening of memoriam.” Irma’s tankard completed the circle. The circle of friends watched each other over their glasses and held them for a moment as Irma spoke. “O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter breath, what whispers from thy lying lip? ‘The stars,’ she whispered, ‘blindly run; a web is wov’n across the sky; from out waste places comes a cry, and murmurs from the dying sun: and all the phantom, Nature, stands—with all the music in her tone, a hollow echo of my own,—a hollow form with empty hands.’ They are of the deepest Dark, the eternally Evil; Amelia was the lucent Light, the greatest Good. They took something precious from us. They will pay in the end.”

            “To Amelia,” they repeated, once they heard Rolanda begin it again. They reiterated it for good measure. “To Amelia.”

            The six old witches took long drinks from their tankards and replaced them on the table. Augusta’s drink lingered longest by her mouth. She almost grinned as she slammed it down on the wood.

            “She took out two, you know. It reminded me of when we were fifth-years and that hulking Slytherin boy couldn’t seem to comprehend what _no_ meant. He was blue and black in uncomfortable places.” Augusta removed a golden object from her purse. A golden chain followed it and slithered across the table. It was a monocle. The woman knotted it around her drink and stroked the metal fondly. “She was always feistier than people gave her credit for. Powerful, sure, but she had a fire to her.”

            Irma looked her friend up and down, grinning subtly. “You would know all about her fire, Gussie.”

            Augusta smirked in her least decent manner and leaned back in her chair. “She was a politician. They need some opportunities for release.”

            “And you, being the most charitable option, provided ample opportunity,” Rolanda remarked with a quick spark to her eyes. Wil was relieved to witness it—her hawk was coming home. She finished, “I’m sure her cheek never left the pillow.”

            Augusta guffawed and gave the woman a hearty slap on the back. “You don’t go tampering with her reputation, you hear? You old wench. I’m sure you’ve mishandled the occasional broom with good ol’ Wilhelmina onboard.”

            Hooch shook her head and bumped Wil’s knee under the table, sending her a fierce grin. Wil slipped her arm over the back of the woman’s chair, just touching her robes. Rolanda leaned back and bumped Wil’s hand onto her shoulder; she sent a smile over the other. It was immediately returned.

            Wil listened to the exchange of stories, relieved their night of remembrance would not be one entirely of remorse. Amelia Bones was a character; they all were, especially as a group. Their Hogwarts stories came from different times, but they had been friends so long—an extraordinarily long time, given the number and quality of the stories—it seemed they were all students together.

            Three tight generations of witches. Wil glanced at the chair once more, then at Irma.

            “She enjoyed the library,” Irma announced, staring at the chair. The others turned to look. “We met in the library. We met revising Transfigurations.” Minerva smiled. “Seventh year she kissed me during a late-night revision session. I didn’t tell her to stop.”

            Augusta, not the irrationally jealous type, merely chuckled. “In the library! A kiss with you in the library! You didn’t hold yourself to the standards you do your students, mmm?”

            Irma raised one thin eyebrow and stared at her companion. At last she laughed.

            As the evening drew to a close after too many firewhiskys and uncountable stories recounted, Augusta sighed. “I’ll miss her.”

            Minerva raised her wand, lighting the rafters above her head. Pomfrey followed immediately. Wilhelmina, Hooch and Irma copied. Gussie glanced up and watched, her eyes watery. She kissed her wand and lifted it to the sky.

            “Amelia Bones.”

            Further wands raised, other pub partisans amalgamating symbolically against their enemy and for recognition of those lost.

            “Henrietta Abbott,” a male voice murmured.

            “Florean Fortescue.”

            “Emmeline Vance.”

            “Broderick Bode.”

            Each name was repeated by all present after its mention. A number of others joined the spoken memorial. The room was lit with wandlight and heavy with shared burden.

 

 

When the six women left the pub, others followed them out. The six friends kissed and embraced, whispering short goodbyes. No one knew if it would be a last. They parted in friendship and hoped it would occur again.

            Wilhelmina lit her pipe. She and Hooch Apparated to her cottage, where Hooch called her to bed. Wil smiled sadly.

            Rolanda sought release as she knew how, much as Amelia Bones and Augusta Longbottom would have. Irma Pince had her books. Minerva McGonagall would shed three tears and stiffen her façade. Poppy Pomfrey would cry, tut and put her effort into saving others. Augusta Longbottom, the Mother, would watch Neville and Susan.

            Rolanda Hooch had Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank’s tongue, fingers, embrace and comfort.

            Wil had her hawk, her dearheart friends and her wise creatures.

            They would make it through, somehow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. (: I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
